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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642848">Inhale, Exhale</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Duchess/pseuds/The_Duchess'>The_Duchess</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, POV Alternating, Spies &amp; Secret Agents, Yoga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:06:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642848</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Duchess/pseuds/The_Duchess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is a retired army captain in need of some grounding after returning home from war. He takes a yoga class, per the advice of his friend Sam Wilson, and finds the most beautiful voice he's ever heard. He's definitely coming back for more.<br/>--<br/>Bucky Barnes is a former dancer trying to make ends meet with a million side jobs. He teaches yoga for the steady income, certainly not to look at the blond whose built like a superhero and keeps coming to his classes, thank you very much.<br/>--<br/>Updates will occur (hopefully) once every 10 days.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I took a deep breath in and closed my eyes. I could feel the heat all around me at this point. The heaviness in the air, the sweat trickling down my low back, the dampness on my fingertips. I was ready to scream at the top of my lungs for some release, but I decided to tough it out.</p><p>“And release and fold to the ground.”</p><p>Finally, some surcease. I slowly eased my body down to the ground. I had previously been in dancer’s pose and it was committing murder on my thighs. It took me awhile to get into the pose, what with all my strength built up and the limited flexibility it seemed was ever present in my body. I settled into a forward fold and let my body hang heavy.</p><p>“Bring your hands to the mat on an inhale, exhale and jump back to a flow, ending in downward dog.”</p><p>I launched off the ground and sent my legs up and back behind me to start my flow. It was the last one of class. I could finally shift into some cool down poses and then wait for my favorite part of class. I moved into shoulder stand, then rolled up to a seat for meditation. I sighed, shut my eyes, and waited to listen to the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard. </p><p>--</p><p>He was here again. I couldn’t quite put a count on it, but I was certain he’d been in my last 4 classes. You couldn’t miss that build anywhere. His name was Steve but it could have easily been Brick. He looked like someone who was more at home in a gym doing Olympic training. I don’t know how he ended up at the yoga studio where I taught but I was immensely grateful. He was dangerously beautiful to watch, although we weren’t supposed to watch students. He set up in the exact same place with military precision: third row of mats, second from the left. I could see him being some sort of army captain in a previous life. His shoulders seemed as wide as the door when he walked in, his legs long and thick with muscle. In any other world, his demeanor would have been harsh but he had a shy, quiet smile whenever he entered the studio that saved him from reading as aggressive. He was quiet, respectful and gorgeous.</p><p>I had it bad. </p><p>The first time I had him in my class I nearly lost my footing walking by him in child’s pose, his back beautifully testing the limits of his shirt, his backside sweetly, slightly upturned (but maybe that was my imagination), his hands large and arms powerfully shaped. I thought he must be joking to be taking yoga with that body type but I was surprised with how graceful he was, despite his size. I put away my preconceived notions and put him through his yoga paces, as it were. We moved a lot in class, my voice flowing with every breath to take and move to make. I always tried to end classes with a poem or words of contemplation during meditation before letting people slip into savasana.  Steve seemed to enjoy my reading. I would see his shoulders roll back in space and his knees settle closer to the ground, all with a slight smile on his face. I wondered what he was thinking about as I read.</p><p>--</p><p>I was absolutely captivated by the voice filling up the room. Melodious, profound and touched with a hint of steel from a vague Eastern European dialect, I couldn’t have asked for more from James. I was admittedly apprehensive about coming to yoga classes. After retiring at 29 from the army after a 10-year career, I was used to being yelled, screamed, shouted and commanded at, never suggested or offered or allowed as I was in class. The words directed at me had always been hard. I needed something softer after all that time at war. My VA Air Force friend Sam recommended I start doing yoga upon my returning to the states and I laughed so hard I cried. He told me not to knock it until I tried it and even offered a studio that was open to all people, regardless of previous experience, and boasted an inclusive staff. My first class was with James and although I’d been a little clumsy, I found the breath work and movement grounding. It didn’t hurt that he was absolutely, devastatingly beautiful, distracting me at times throughout class. Tall, lithe and articulate, he could have been a dancer in another life. He demonstrated poses with shockingly little effort that everyone then tried and failed at, fell over in, or plain refused to do. I tried all the things I could and felt I made his world a little brighter whenever I tried a standing pose and lasted for more than 3 seconds.</p><p>However difficult class may be, the ending was always worth it. James’ voice resonated through the room as he voiced words from a navy binder during our quiet meditation. We were supposed to be focusing on our breath but all I could hear was his voice and wondering what it might feel like if he was speaking to only me, with no one else in the room, right near my head. I visibly shuddered and tried to will my body to calm. This was a yoga studio; there was no place here for an erection. As we moved down onto our mats, I placed a blanket over myself to make sure nothing was showing, lest James catch onto my attraction to him. I would be mortified if my yoga crush became publicly known. I settled my body and my breath and tried to calm down and relax. My mind betrayed me and kept replaying my fantasy of James moving closer towards me, his voice resounding in my ear, surrounding me with warmth.</p><p>--</p><p>Steve wasn’t slick. I had seen that shudder. I knew it well. I had it every time I thought too hard about someone. It usually led to me excusing myself to splash cold water on my face to get myself together or, if I was alone, dealing with the matter at hand immediately. I saw him try to discreetly place a blanket over his hips to hide any show of arousal. I wonder what set him off.</p><p>What if it was you?</p><p>I told the voice in my head to quiet down. Steve probably had some model-level beautiful woman waiting at home for him or perhaps a regular rotation of women he went through to keep him satisfied. He couldn’t possibly be interested in the ex-dancer immigrant with the too big eyes and odd sounding vowels. At any rate, I wanted to calm him down. His adjustment card was always flipped to yes, so I decided to approach. As my music swelled and soared, I went behind him and gave him a small, sweet head massage. I tilted his head from side to side and felt his breath on my wrist.  I eased the furrow from his brow and smoothed the lines along his scalp. His head was so warm. I gently placed his head back on the ground and saw him smile with his eyes closed. It’s always the best when I can help my students relax. I love seeing people fully at peace in my classes.</p><p>At peace, not standing at attention, so to speak. I eased away from Steve and returned to the front of class to bring people gently out of savaasana. I gave my closing statement, the same for every class, and wished them well and to see me if there was anything they needed. Most students lingered after I stopped speaking but some got up right away. Typically, Steve was one of those students, but he hung back this time, slowly gathering his things. That seemed odd but I kept my cool, talking to people that complimented my class and asked about their foot placement in a couple of standing poses. Eventually, everyone left the space for the evening except for Steve. I turned around from putting away my mat and suddenly, he was there, 2 feet in front of me.</p><p>“Thanks for the bit at the end,” he said, voice sounding like deep, rich caramel. I nearly lost my balance.</p><p>--</p><p>The 3 adjustments I’d received from James before today were all about my arm placement in poses. I was trying to settle into my final rest but my very awake dick was making it impossible. All the sudden, I felt a gentle hovering presence near my head and then James’ fingers were on me. I very quietly moaned. I hoped against hope he didn’t hear me. I stayed as still as I could, letting him do whatever he was doing. My neck felt so good afterward. I wished the imprints of his warm, sure touch would stay but alas, the pressure he applied was very light. I focused on my inhales and exhales as I drifted, wondering how much heavier his touch could be in other situations. </p><p>Before I knew it, I heard James saying his customary closing words. I was still flat on the floor, so I took my time getting up. I wanted to thank him for what he did but there were always so many people around him. I decided to slow my roll and take a little time getting my things in order. When everyone left, I approached him, perhaps a bit too close. His pupils widened a bit when he turned around and saw me.</p><p>“Thanks for the bit at the end,” I said to James, trying to keep my tone even, trying not to let on how good his hands felt on me.</p><p>“No problem, happy to help. How are things feeling?” He was always so attentive. </p><p>“Good, feeling ready to float right to the shower and go to bed,” I said, smiling a little wide. </p><p>“That’s good to hear. Nothing like yoga, a shower, and a good book right before bed.” James started to leave the room, turning off the lights. </p><p>“You coming?”</p><p>“Right behind you.” I would stay that way forever, happy to follow him anywhere.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When James met Natasha.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I got home and let out a huge sigh. It could be troublesome getting home from Williamsburg, a toss up between riding a bike or taking the subway but I made it work. People said I should just move to that neighborhood, but I hung close to my miniscule but affordable apartment in Park Slope. It was close enough. They’d have to pry the lease from my hands to get me to move. I locked up, set my stuff down, and went to the fridge hoping lasagna had magically appeared. It had not. No fairy pasta gods visited me while I was out.</p>
<p>“Can’t you visit me at least once? All I want are fresh noodles and homemade sausage.”</p>
<p>“Those we can make,” said a voice from my living room.</p>
<p>I sighed, once more, in annoyance. “Can’t you ever announce yourself when you get here? I swear, sometimes you forget to leave the stealth agent act at work.” I turned on the living room light and found my dear friend Natasha sitting with her legs crossed.</p>
<p>“I was meditating. Some of us don’t have permanent access to quiet, peaceful spaces. We have to make do with what we have.”</p>
<p>“Are you coming off a mission? Do you need anything?” Sometimes, when she came off missions, she was hurt or sore or in no mood to socialize but ready to wanted to curl up and decompress.</p>
<p>“No, I was planning on going to eat tacos with you at this new place, but if you want pasta instead…”</p>
<p>“Tacos sound great. Let me put my stuff away and we can go.”</p>
<p>I’ve been following Natasha around for a decade now. She’s never led me astray. I first met her on the street at 18, trying to find my way around NYU. I was trying to find my way to the arts campus building and was thoroughly lost. Stupid campus map. I started swearing at myself in Romanian, my first language, and was shocked when I heard someone respond that I should calm down and look up in the same language. I glanced up to find a redhead with streaks of black in her hair.</p>
<p>“Unde te duci, catel?”</p>
<p>“Uh, Tisch?”</p>
<p>“Bineinteles ca esti un dansator. Mergeți două blocuri spre sud și virați la stânga.”</p>
<p>“Mulțumesc. Nu sunt un catel! Sunt nou aici.”</p>
<p>“Orice ai spune,” she said with a smile. I thanked her again and followed the directions she gave me. I ended up at the place I had dreamed about, hoped for since I was 8. Tisch School of Arts! At NYU! Me, the boy from Indiana with no business being in New York was actually giving this a shot. Well, my scholarships and loans and work study and some parent’s money (but not much) were giving this a shot. When I was 8, my parents took me and my twin sister Becca to New York to see the Rockefeller tree, some plays on Broadway and, most importantly, the Nutcracker. I was mesmerized the whole time. I told my parents that’s what I wanted to do when I grew up and my mom kindly said, “Well, try to get into Tisch and we’ll see.” And now I was here.</p>
<p>I sat and stared at the building, taking everything in when I heard a whistle. “You coming, catel?” It was the redhead again, holding a door open. When did she get here?</p>
<p>“Yes, of course. Do you go to school here?”</p>
<p>“Da. I’m taking a dance class as a very rare elective from my regular coursework. You?”</p>
<p>“BFA student, first year.”</p>
<p>“Well, welcome to the big leagues. I trust you like challenges?”</p>
<p>I didn’t, not really, but there was no need for her to know that.</p>
<p>“I guess we’ll see. My name’s James, by the way.”</p>
<p>“Natasha. International relations major.”</p>
<p>“Ah, that explains the multiple languages.”</p>
<p>“Does it? C’est bon à savoir. Я всегда хочу быть готовым.”</p>
<p>She winked at me and I rolled my eyes. We both walked into Intermediate ballet and that was the start of our friendship. Natasha came to the states when she was 12 from Russia and had to quickly assimilate after her father died a year later. Her mother started traveling for work for more money as a business consultant. With no siblings, she was left alone quite often to amuse herself. Turns out she was pretty good at playing pranks on people and getting things she wanted, so she told her mom majoring in international relations as a way to become a spy would be the best path forward. Her mother laughed and told her she could do anything she wanted as long as she was happy.</p>
<p>Currently, she’s working for some top secret agency she won’t tell me the name of and it sucks because we don’t have keep many secrets from each other. I’m pretty sure she’s either assassinated people or tortured someone for information, but she’s also my best friend who “borrows” my old socks and replaces them with new ones, so I don’t judge.</p>
<p>After getting tacos and sitting down, Natasha asked me about my day.</p>
<p>“SO, any visits from your new favorite student?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and he’s still distracting. I gave him a head massage to try to calm him down. It was all I could do.”</p>
<p>“Why wasn’t he calm? You teach yoga, not Zumba.”</p>
<p>“I think he may have been aroused. I wanted to help him out-“</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m sure you did. Why won’t you tell me him name? You know, I could look into him for you, make sure he’s on the up and up.”</p>
<p>“It’s not that serious. I’m not even sure he’s into me like that. It could have been a wayward boner. I don’t know, can we talk about something else?” I was getting frustrated, thinking about how much more serious I wanted things to be versus how they were.</p>
<p>“Sure, catel. Want to hear a story about a billionaire, a lava pit, and a lagoon?”</p>
<p>“Lay it on me.” I listened to her ridiculous story and only once drifted off thinking about Steve. I wondered if he was thinking about me.</p>
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